 | Poems by a Painter |  |
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ALONE.
'Twas eve; the level sunlight fell
Athwart the distant ocean-swell,
And like a wreath of glory lay
Along the ripples of the bay,
That, curling inwards to the greener strand,
Died in a starry gush along the golden sand.
Athwart the distant ocean-swell,
And like a wreath of glory lay
Along the ripples of the bay,
That, curling inwards to the greener strand,
Died in a starry gush along the golden sand.
No thing of earthly mould was nigh,
Save one lone skylark, trancedly
Hymning up the cloudless sky,
On the wings of his own wild melody.
No other sound,—save when the breeze
Sighed in the solemn chestnut trees,
Or stirred the spear-grass by my side,—
Answered the whispers of the tide;
And over all, like guardian spirit, shone
Eve's “bright particular star,” all lovely and alone!
Save one lone skylark, trancedly
Hymning up the cloudless sky,
On the wings of his own wild melody.
No other sound,—save when the breeze
Sighed in the solemn chestnut trees,
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Answered the whispers of the tide;
And over all, like guardian spirit, shone
Eve's “bright particular star,” all lovely and alone!
I gazed upon the glimmering bay,
I gazed into the tranquil sky,
I heard the skylark's roundelay,
I saw the waves glide glittering by,
I felt the low winds round me sigh,
And to my weary spirit said:
Why linger still beside the dead?
Look forth from out thy living grave,
Nor longer—freeborn—be the slave
Of misery. No longer pine
For happiness—already thine,
If thou but choose to look abroad
Upon the workmanship of God!
I seek the Beautiful, it sighed—
It is around thee, I replied:
Look forth into this glorious eve,
But once look forth, and thou wilt own
No sentient thing hath room to grieve,
Whate'er betide. With inward moan
It answered—Am I not alone?
I gazed into the tranquil sky,
I heard the skylark's roundelay,
I saw the waves glide glittering by,
I felt the low winds round me sigh,
And to my weary spirit said:
Why linger still beside the dead?
Look forth from out thy living grave,
Nor longer—freeborn—be the slave
Of misery. No longer pine
For happiness—already thine,
If thou but choose to look abroad
Upon the workmanship of God!
I seek the Beautiful, it sighed—
It is around thee, I replied:
84
But once look forth, and thou wilt own
No sentient thing hath room to grieve,
Whate'er betide. With inward moan
It answered—Am I not alone?
| Poems by a Painter | |